Moments in Time
by redcape
Summary: A series of drabbles and oneshots revolving around Nikita's time in Division before her escape. Updates will be sporadic.
1. 1

**AN: **How great is Nikita? I'm not really content with just rewatching the same episodes over and over again on my dvr, and since we have to wait a whole month before the new episode (booo), there is nothing to do but write/read some good ol' fanfiction. I've never written fanfiction for TV shows before, but I've had experience with books and movies, so hopefully this will turn out alright. (:

Updates might not happen very often, so bear with me. I write whenever inspiration hits—I can't just sit down and bust something out when I'm not feeling it. So please understand! Chances are I'll be able to write a bunch after every episode, though, so you can look forward to that.

This will be a Mikita fic, because Mikita is quite possibly the best ship ever.

Aaand, surprise surprise, I don't own Nikita. Shucks.

**1**

The one job that Michael hated the most was the same job that he could never delegate to anyone else.

Integrating new recruits was always a tedious process, and the first meeting was the hardest part. Training them to jumpstart cars, treat wounds, assemble artillery—all that would come later, but first he had to earn their trust.

And that was a task he could never entrust to any of the psychopaths at Division.

But, God, is it a stressful.

As Michael walks down the corridor, he plays a little game he's made up just for himself: guess the Stereotype of the Day! Will it the scared, broken recluse? The apathetic sociopath? The stubborn, spitfire street trash? Your answer is right behind door…number…_one!_

After one indulgent, long-suffering sigh, Michael turns walks into the cold, clinical room. The room didn't really give off the vibe he would've gone for—this was a new recruit's first taste of their new life, after all. Shouldn't it be a more…welcoming? cordial?—but he guessed it was best to disillusion them right away. Division was no day spa; they shouldn't expect it to be.

He takes a cursory glance at the girl sitting on the bed, staring up at him from underneath a curtain of dark, matted hair. He picks up the file on the table and flips through it—asshole foster dad, runaway druggie…Divison's usual MO.

"Nikita," he greets.

She looks at him, shakes some dirty hair out of her face, but says nothing.

"How are you feeling?"

Silence. Then, rough and dry: "like shit."

Like he hasn't heard that one before.

"Well, hopefully, you'll be feeling better in a few days."

She ignores his last statement. "Where the hell am I?"

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. Here we go.


	2. 2

It was a while before her hands stopped shaking, her nose stopped dripping, and her body learned to feel warmth again. But the Ketmine, like everything else in the world, eventually ran its course and left her system. She didn't feel good yet, but a state of well-being felt attainable now.

But physical pain was only half the equation. A few days after graduating Amanda's rehab period, Nikita was torn.

Part of her, the tired part, wants to just give in. It might not be homey yet, but Division is warm, she was well-fed, and for the first time since she could remember she had her own room—albeit one slightly lacking in personality. It also helped her get clean, which she realized now was a good thing.

Another part of her hates every minute of it. She's used to fending for herself, and she didn't need charity…if that's what this is supposed to be. She couldn't shake the feeling that this was some big reclamation project for down-on-their-luck kids, and she had too much pride to accept someone else's scraps. Nikita has never needed anyone, and she wasn't about to start.

And she still couldn't remember killing anyone—Larry, they said his name was. She couldn't remember it. She thinks she would've remembered committing a cold blooded murder, but she can't.

And the biggest part of her was just confused. Confused, because even after all this time, she still didn't know what Division was, why she was here, why _any_ of them were here, and no one seemed to want to give her any clues. On the first day, Michael wouldn't tell her anything except 'you're working for your country,' 'we're giving you a second chance,' and patriotic, guilt trip-y shit like that. Whatever.

She'd hoped this 'Amanda' might be able to shed more light, but Amanda turned out to be some way-creepy, psychobabble-spewing lady who promised to help her 'embrace her beauty.' The entire time she was stuck in that room, and all the time Amanda spent with her to rid her of her addiction, she couldn't shake off the feeling that, while Amanda was the epitome of cultivated and refined on the outside, something terrible was brewing underneath that perfect smile, those pearly teeth.

Aside from Amanda and Michael, the only other people she'd come into contact with were the other recruits, who weren't keen on making friends. Nikita was never exactly a social butterfly, either, so she kept to herself.

Which was why she was surprised when a lunch tray dropped down next to hers and someone else sat down at her usually solitary table.

"Hey, new girl," a boy said, smiling at her.

She stared at him, unsure of what stunt he was trying to pull.

He laughed at her expression. "You look like you're thinking of ways to kill me. Chill, sweetheart." He held out a hand. "I'm Matt."

She didn't take his hand. "What do you want?"

He put up both hands, the universal gesture for 'hold you horses.'

"Alright, Ms. Anti-Social. You've been here for a week now and I haven't heard you say a single word, so I thought you could use a friend. But I guess not."

She watched him pick up his tray and move to another table, probably to tell the others about what a bitch the new girl was. She turned back and stabbed at her potato salad, wondering she'd just made a big mistake.


	3. 3

He didn't know much about the new girl, but if there was one thing he was sure of, it's that she was smokin' hot.

Michael would probably have his head if he knew what Birkhoff was thinking, but Birkhoff wasn't stupid. He knew the rules. Look, don't touch, and everything would be fine.

So he was looking. And what a l0vely sight it was.

Today was his first tech lesson with the newest recruits—a basic touching-upon of the basics (and he meant the _basics—_street kids, unsurprisingly, generally did not have in-depth knowledge of servers and OPs when they first get here) to help them on the long, long, _long_ road to technological success. And today's lesson was going even worse than usual…

He swore, if someone asked him what a 'window' was one more time, he was going to get Percy to cancel every damn one of them.

The only bright spot in this increasingly tedious day was the beautiful face of the newest addition to the Division family…even if it was in a perpetual scowl.

"I don't get this," Nikita grumbled, clicking furiously on the controller. "This thing is—broken—ugh!"

"Easy!" Birkhoff said with sudden alarm, grabbing the controller out of her dangerous hands. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to design these things? You have to be kind to it, not treat it like some common keyboard!"

Her expression was skeptical, and a little disgusted. "I have to be _kind _to it?"

He was indignant. "Yes. Treat the technology—" he patted the computer and its companions fondly "—with respect and admiration. Be one with the system—only then will you succeed."

For a second Nikita was speechless, staring at this strange, bespectacled little man like she had never seen anything quite like him before.

Then she burst out laughing. "Are you serious? I had no idea—I mean, you _are _the tech guy, but—wow, you…are such a nerd!"

Nikita was still chuckling, but Birkhoff did not find this amusing at all. In fact, the word 'nerd' brought back many unpleasant childhood memories he usually liked to keep locked away in the dusty corners of his mind, thank you very much. He glowered, giving her his most menacing look.

But of course, his evil eye was nothing compared to Michael's or Amanda's, and it was largely ineffective. Nikita was still smiling, and the rest of the class was looking now—Birkhoff felt himself gradually turn red. 

_This will not do. No amount of hotness justifies this._

"Nerd or not, I_ am _in charge of whether or not you pass this class," he reminded her, "and if I tip off Michael that your _attitude _isn't compatible with our business here…" he trailed off suggestively.

It was a bluff. Michael didn't really give much weight to his words, strangely enough.

But she didn't know that. That smile was promptly wiped off of her pretty little face.

Birkhoff smiled, satisfied. "You better get back to work…Nikki."

She glared at him and he smiled smugly back.

To quote an overused, but appropriate, phrase: it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.


	4. 4

**AN: **I'm starting to feel the full force of Nikita withdrawal. Ughhh April 7th, where are you?

**4**

It was a rare, uneventful afternoon at Division, and Michael found himself with some precious free time on his hands when it was only 11 pm—a seldom occurring phenomenon. He was contemplating the possibilities—read a book? watch tv? coddle his neglected social life?—as he made his last rounds when he noticed a light at the back of the computer lab.

"You're supposed to be in your quarters," he said, recognizing the figure.

She glanced at him, and turned back to the screen. "I need to finish this. If I don't…well, I'm not giving Nerd the satisfaction."

Michael walked up behind Nikita and watched her fumble around on the keyboard for a few moments—he counted three obvious mistakes in less than a minute. Clearly, she had some work to do.

Nikita said a silent prayer to herself and hit enter—beeeep, _encryption failed._

"Damn it!" she growled, hitting the keyboard furiously. She turned up to Michael and ground out, "I'm never going to get this."

Michael raised an eyebrow a pulled up a chair next to her. "First of all, stop abusing the equipment," he said, glancing down at the keyboard. "Second, you will. This stuff takes practice."

"Nerd said it was basic."

"_Birkhoff,"_ Michael said pointedly, "exaggerates. Frequently."

She sighed. "Still."

Michael checked his watch. 11:04. "I have some time; let's see what you're doing wrong."

Michael settled into his seat, and the pair set out to work on Nikita's lacking encryption skills. In between tech jargon, they talked about other things, like:

"_How have you been getting along?"_

"_Fine, I guess."_

"_I see you're getting along with Hamilton."_

"_Matt? He's annoying."_

"_But you've been getting along."_

_A pause. "I suppose."_

"_That's good. Amanda will be happy."_

_A longer pause. "Amanda scares me."_

_He laughed, something she didn't know he could do. The sound bounced around her head. "She only wants the best for you."_

"_She's still creepy. And Nerd's a jerk. The other recruits avoid me like the plague. Everyone here annoys the hell out of me—"_

_She stopped realizing she just put her foot in her mouth._

_Michael simply raised a characteristic eyebrow. "Not _everyone,_ I hope?"_

_She reddened, embarrassed, and looked down. "Maybe not _every_one."_

_He smiled. "Good."_

And:

"_It's getting late."_

"_I'm almost done."_

"_Actually, you're far from being done, and the fact that you think you're almost done shows me that you still have no idea what you're doing."_

_She gives him her best glare. "Ass."_

_His face is deadpan as usual, but she gets the impression he's hiding a smile._

"_Maybe I'd be better if I had a competent teacher."_

"_Maybe I'd try harder if my student wasn't so hopeless."_

_She considers this, and laughs. He finds it harder to maintain a straight face._

"_Fine, you win this round."_

_She goes back to her screen, still smiling, feeling a deal less frustrated than before._

And:

"_I'm still…don't get it."_

"_It's control-shift-F9, just—"_

_She turns, her expression exasperated. "That's not what I meant." He watched her grasp for words. "…Michael, what am I doing here?_

"_I thought we were trying to encrypt this file."_

"_Are you trying to be funny?"_

_He gives her a stern look—Michael doesn't do funny. "I don't try to be facetious."_

_She rolls his eyes at him. "What I'm trying to say is, what am I doing _here? _At Division?"_

_This was a question he got about three times a week, a question he asks himself all too often. "You've learning to serve—"_

"_My country. Yeah. That's the bullshit I get every time. What exactly does 'serving my country' entail?"_

"_Missions. We go undercover to get intel, stop terrorists…" He sees the look on her face—this isn't the answer she's looking for. "What have you heard?"_

_She meets his eyes and he can tell she's been thinking about this for a while. "I heard we kill people."_

_He lets out a long breath, wondering how to best phrase his reply. "That…is sometimes a necessary by-product."_

_She scrutinizes him, and he feels like she sees a part of him he didn't even know he had. "I heard that's all we do. I heard you're training us to be assassins, to kill and nothing else."_

_He can see she hates this idea, and he hates being the one to force it on her._

_But that was his job. "It is _not," _he says, his tone frigid, "'all we do.' You are also _serving your country, _which isn't just a euphemism, Nikita._ _Believe it or not , we're protecting innocent lives and administering justice here, and you shouldn't take that lightly."_

_His expression is rigid, and she feels that she may have over stepped her boundaries._

"_And I advise you to take what you _hear," _he continues sternly, "with a grain of salt next time."_

_She gulps and turns back to her screen like a reprimanded puppy, while he tries to not think about how right she really is._

And finally:

"Oh, shit! Is that the time?"

Nikita looks down at the forgotten lower right corner of the screen, which reads _4:49._

She hurriedly goes though proper log-out protocol, while mumbling to herself. "I have to get up early tomorrow too, for…shit, shit, shit, stupid Nerd…"

He watched her fumbled around with slight amusement. She wipes the log and clears the history, as per Division standards, finally logging out of her server and gets up to leave.

"Thanks for the help, Michael," she says as she walks swiftly to the exit. By the door, she stops, as though considering something, and turns around, smiling. "Good night."

He watches her turn the corner with a flash of dark, silky hair.

There go his prospects of a nice, quiet evening…and yet he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

It was the beginnings of a different kind of friendship.


End file.
